The Battlefield (New Version)
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: S01E15: The Enigma. The (fictionalized) story of one part of the Battle of Kuwait International Airport on February 27, 1991, and how Leroy Jethro Gibbs earned his Silver Star and Purple Heart.


**The Battlefield**

**A/N: This story is partly inspired by pre-series history known in canon about Gibbs, such as the fact that he was awarded the Silver Star and Purple Heart during his time in the Marine Corps, and the last and largest war he fought in was the Gulf War of 1990-1991. It is also inspired by conversations I have had with a user called Jenny wrens. In talking to her about "Gibbs' Test", a story she is currently writing, I suggested that Gibbs call in a favor with an old friend- and what better friend could he have than a fellow veteran of one of the most intense battles of the Gulf War?**

**This story is as authentic as I could make it. I apologize for any inaccuracies. Be aware that there is some strong language in the text, as the story features U.S. Marines engaging the enemy on the battlefield.**

**I got the idea for a new version of this story after I started making changes to the original, and realized maybe I should leave the original alone and post the update separately. If you're doing more than minor revisions, that can often be a good way to go. I realized that I left out my OC Josh Marshall's first child, and decided to actually write the scene of Josh going to see the Navy chaplain, so I revised the story accordingly.**

There was something eerie about the desert at night.

Looking out across the wide, open land, almost totally devoid of any landmarks, Gunnery Sergeant Leroy Jethro Gibbs wanted to shiver, and not just from the cold. The thirteen M1A1 tanks of Bravo Company, 2nd Tank Battalion, 2nd Marines and the thirty-one other men of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 1st Marines were out here with Gibbs, as were the combat engineer tanks 2nd Marines had sent out here to breach this minefield ahead of the main force advancing on Kuwait International Airport from this direction… but for miles in any direction there was nobody else in sight.

Whole divisions of the U.S. Army and U.S. Marines were involved in the assault on Kuwait International, which the Iraqi military had turned into a major stronghold and staging area for their occupation and planned annexation of their smaller neighbor. There were thousands and thousands of men out there in the dark somewhere, all around, on one side or the other. But for all Gibbs could see or hear, the company of tanks, platoon of infantry, and platoon of engineers working on breaching this minefield were the only human beings on Earth.

Worse still- for Gibbs, at least- was the fact that apart from carefully watching the dark through his NVGs for any sign of the enemy, his M16 rifle ready in his hands, he had precious little to do. A company of tanks and a platoon of Marines were pulling security for a platoon of engineers, and until they finished clearing the mines, it was hurry up and wait.

That meant being alone with your thoughts, especially since the men in charge, 1st Lieutenant David Cameron of 2nd Platoon, Charlie Company and Captain Josh Marshall of Bravo Company, 2nd Tanks had strictly forbidden any non-essential conversation, on or off the radio. Gibbs was a man of few words even at the best of times, but he didn't like having nothing to occupy his mind with. The worst kind of news possible had come from the States just two weeks ago, and Gibbs had hoped the war would be enough to distract him. That was part of the reason why he stayed. If he was fighting, focused every second on survival and ensuring the survival of his Marines, Gibbs didn't have to think about what had happened. He didn't want to think about it at all.

The NVGs didn't really help matters, either. They were effective enough at cutting through the dark, giving Gibbs better vision than he could ever have had on his own, but they also cast a sickly green look over everything, making it all seem even more alien and unknown.

"Gunny," a Marine whispered from a few feet to Gibbs' right. "Hey, Gunny."

"What is it?" Gibbs whispered back. Even in the dark, he knew it was the platoon's sniper, Corporal Troy Barnas, set up beside his spotter, Lance Corporal Kevin Laszewski. Gibbs knew the name, face, and voice of every Marine in the platoon, and prided himself on knowing them as well as they knew themselves, or better.

"I got possible armor headed in our direction. Estimate 4-0 units of enemy armor and APCs."

"Check it again, Corporal."

"I counted four times, Gunny. They're Republican Guard. I don't think they've sighted us yet but they're headed thus way."

Gibbs turned and headed over to Lieutenant Cameron's section of the platoon. "Sir, have any of your men sighted hostile armor, possible 4-0 units of Republican Guard?"

"Funny thing, Gunny, I was about to send Ramirez to ask you."

"Anyone talked to Bravo's CO?"

"Well, Gunny, since you're here…"

Gibbs cracked a rare smile. Cameron was a damn good Marine, one of the best Gibbs had ever met. He might have been a commissioned officer, and an inexperienced one at that, but he understood the parameters of his job well, recognized what he did and didn't know, and was committed to being the best at everything he did.

The lead tank, known on the radio as Anvil Actual, had ASSKICKER painted in large black letters to either side of the smoothbore 120mm main gun's barrel. It was on point immediately behind the Marine engineer tanks, modified M60 Pattons with the same snorting, growling turbodiesel engine mounted. The M728's were slowly backing up past Bravo's M1A1s as Gibbs double-timed it over to Anvil Actual, mounted the rear deck, and banged on the hatch. He hit it twice, paused, then hit it twice more- the prearranged signal.

The commander's hatch opened up, and Bravo's commander, Captain Joshua Marshall, looked up. "Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs," the 30-year-old said. "I was just about to break radio silence. Get your platoon mounted up. Pull your Humvees behind us and get ready to use all the AT you got."

Something tightened in Gibbs' chest. "Got a plan for that armor, Cap?"

"You bet, Gunny. They might be trying something, but they haven't spotted us. We're gonna crank up and hit 'em first." The younger man cracked a smile, almost cocky enough to hide how nervous he was. "Just hide behind my boys, Gunny. You infantry pukes'll be fine."

"Roger, sir. We'll be Oscar Mike right with you."

Gibbs then leapt off the rear deck of the tank, hit the ground at a run, and started shouting for all of the dismounted Marines to get back in their Humvees. Lieutenant Cameron quickly added his voice to it, and Marines snatched up weapons and equipment and sprinted for their soft-skinned trucks.

With at least 40 of Saddam Hussein's best tank crews out there in the dark, headed toward them, the situation was bad. But in typical Marine fashion, Captain Marshall had quickly devised a bold plan to reverse it. Gibbs just prayed the new Abrams would be good enough. This force was out here on their own, far from any source of immediate help. As in so many other situations in the Marines Corps' past, audacity and skill were their best chance of survival.

**XX**

Identify multiple targets!" Sergeant Aaron Crenshaw, gunner of Anvil Actual, called out. "Multiple T-72's, say again, multiple T-72 and T-55s's! Identify additional T-62s!"

"All Anvil Victors," Captain Josh Marshall said into his helmet's radio, "all Anvil Victors, this is Anvil Actual. Multiple T-72's, I say again, multiple T-72's and T-55s closing on our position. Move forward at flank speed, engage and destroy. How copy?"

"Anvil Actual, this is Anvil 1 Actual, solid copy."

"Anvil 2 Actual copies all."

"Anvil Actual, Anvil 3 Actual, solid copy."

"Anvil 4 Actual copies all, moving to engage enemy tanks."

Josh Marshall grinned to himself as he looked out of his M1A1 Abrams tank, through the open commander's hatch. He keyed his headset again, "Let's go to work, people; this is why we came here."

With that, the 30-year-old Marine officer dropped himself down into the commander's seat inside the M1's turret, reached up, and pulled the hatch closed above him. After securing it, Josh called out, "Whenever you're ready, Crenshaw! Fire sabot! Light 'em the fuck up!"

"On the way!" Crenshaw yelled, and the 65-ton tank shuddered as its main gun roared, sending a 120mm armor-piercing round downrange. The T-72 that Crenshaw had targeted in the middle of the column, roughly 1200 meters away, abruptly blew up not even one second later.

The Russian T-72 main battle tank, the MBT of choice for numerous enemies of freedom across the world, namely dictator Saddam Hussein's Iraq, had been the latest thing twenty years ago, but it was an old beast and well past its prime, especially in the stock, non-upgraded form the Iraqi Army and even the Republican Guard, Hussein's elite forces, were known to use it in.

The T-72 had always been a cheap, mass-produced tank, though, right from the start. No great amount of money had been put into its armor or even protecting its ammunition, which was stored in the center of the hull. So, when the stock of 105mm shells and propellant was penetrated by the sabot round from Josh's M1, it all simply blew up, filling the tank with fire and blowing its turret clean off.

The T-55s and the supporting BMP's were even worse off. They might as well have been made of paper next when put up against the firepower of a modern tank. And the Abrams wasn't just modern. It was, hands-down, the best tank ever devised. There was nothing better in all the world.

In the span of two seconds, Lance Corporal Thomas Schaefer, Josh' loader, drew another 120mm sabot round from the Abrams' ammunition storage, kicked the spent casing of the previous round aside as it clattered to the floor, shoved the new round in and closed the breech.

"Sabot ready!" Schaefer called.

"On the way!" Crenshaw shouted over the roaring of the Abrams' gas-turbine engine.

Downrange, another T-72 exploded, then two, then three more. A fourth and fifth exploded as Anvil 3's tanks continued to fire from nearby.

"Six T-72's engaged and destroyed!" Anvil 3 Actual called out.

"Solid copy, Anvil 3, good fucking work," Josh said, unable to keep a note of delight from his voice.

"Anvil Actual, this is Anvil 4 Actual, five T-72's, two T-55s, and three BMPs destroyed."

"Anvil 1, Anvil 2, report sitrep," Josh called into his headset.

"Anvil Actual, I count four T-72's and six BMP's destroyed."

"This is Anvil 2, we have six T-72's and one T-55 engaged and destroyed."

"Anvil Actual, this is Hitman 1 Actual, Hitman 1 is firing ATs in your support."

Antitank rockets shot out from the rear of the Marines' position, racing ahead of the charging Abrams tanks. Josh counted eight rockets fired, and two of them impacted a tank apiece. Within a few seconds of each other, four more T-72s exploded.

As the tanks rushed forward, gunners continued to pick out targets and fire. By the time the fighting had been going on for 90 seconds, Josh would learn much later, 35 Iraqi tanks had already been destroyed. Josh listened to his loader and gunner working in perfect unison, heard the noise and the incredible rush of adrenaline as the 120 fired again and again.

There was an abrupt screech of metal, and the entire hull of the tank shuddered. A second later, it happened again.

"All Anvil Victors, all Anvil Victors, be advised we have estimated 2-0 enemy armor approaching from the west, say again, watch your starboard side. Take 'em down."

Bravo Company and Charlie's Humvees sped past the first of the destroyed Iraqi tanks; already the air was becoming fouled with the smoke of burning propellant and diesel fuel. At less than five hundred meters, a T-55 waited below a slight rise in the desert floor. Through the scopes, it looked like it was a few feet away.

"Tank to our front!" Josh shouted.

"On the way!" Crenshaw screamed, and the 120 belched thunder. The round impacted the hull of the T-55, ignited its unprotected propellant, a small sun lit the desert briefly as the old Soviet tank's ammo detonated.

Trucks could be seen now, some of them towing artillery pieces. Infantry were spilling out of them, and hundreds of fireflies lit the night along with the larger explosions of the Iraqi tanks' main guns. A third shell slammed into the turret of ASSKICKER and glanced off.

"Son of a bitch!" Josh shouted. "Crenshaw, how many armor you got visual on ahead of us?"

"I count, at least 2-0, Cap, plus a lotta fuckin' foot-mobiles!"

"Jesus, man! They brought a whole fuckin' brigade out here!" Corporal Samuel Zane cried from the driver's seat.

Two more shells slammed into their tank. Crenshaw fired, a T-72 blew up, and ASSKICKER shuddered violently.

"We can't take it like this, Captain!" Crenshaw shouted. "On the way!" He fired again, and Josh saw it as his company obliterated six T-72s, four T-55s, and three BMPs in just a few seconds.

"She'll hold it, goddamn it, she'll hold!" Josh yelled back, more of a prayer than an actual conviction. He was making this all up as he went and praying to God it didn't get all these men killed. But his tank was leading the charge, facing the greatest danger. Josh would always and forever shoulder more than his share of the task, and by leading his men from the front, he knew, he would consistently get the best results.

Dozens of bullets were glancing off ASSKICKER's armor every second, along with the occasional heavier punch of a rocket-propelled grenade. The infantrymen ahead were blazing away at the tanks with small arms and obsolete RPG-7s.

"These guys are fuckin' disciplined," Crenshaw breathed. "They're not even breaking ranks!"

Switching to the joint Bravo-Charlie comms, Josh called out, "Hitman and Anvil Victors, this is Anvil Actual! Prioritize T-72s and other heavy armor, secondary target is infantry! Go for it, use the fifties! _Waste the motherfuckers!_"

The coaxial machine gun roared as Crenshaw started working over the infantry dead ahead, less than eight hundred meters away. Josh's heart pounded in his chest, he listened to his other tanks chattering away alongside friendly infantry on the comms, and he felt a kind of savage joy as he watched a couple of trucks explode as Marine MG rounds tore into their sides, setting off all manner of ammo and explosives that had surely been stored inside. Through the growing smoke and dust, Josh could see infantry falling by the second, wounded or dead.

Amidst all the gunfire and the almost non-stop roar of the main cannon of his tank, Josh could barely hear himself even as he screamed out new orders. He directed the fire of his company, announced new targets as he needed to, felt a rush as he watched a new tank or APC destroyed. This Republican Guard force still outnumbered the Marines significantly, but they were taking unsustainable losses.

_Just keep going, fucking do it, kill them all_, Josh thought as his heart pounded and adrenaline pulsed through him. _Kill them. Waste the motherfuckers. Do it before they waste you._

Then ASSKICKER shuddered again, and this time it abruptly came to a halt. "Cap, they got a tread!" Zane yelled. "I'm gonna have to dismount and fix it!"

"God-fucking-_damn_ it!" Josh shouted. "Gimme a second!" He keyed his headset. "All Hitman and Anvil Victors, Anvil Actual is immobilized, say again, we are not combat effective! Proceed to-"

In the same moment that Anvil 3-4, known to her crew as "STEPCHILD," destroyed a BMP 2.33 miles away, a Republican Guard T-72 fired a 105mm round that, by skill or by dumb luck, slammed into a section of the side turret armor on ASSKICKER that was already weakened from a previous impact. A bulkhead inside the turret and blowout panels on the roof protected Anvil Actual's crew from being killed as the remaining 120mm shells exploded, but Josh Marshall was unaware of all that. As the shock of the explosion hurled him forward into the commander's scope and knocked him out, Josh was unaware of anything at all.

**XX**

"Anvil Actual is hit! They're burning up!" one of the other tank commanders called out on the radio.

"All Anvil Victors, hold in place!" another voice said. "I say again, hold in place, continue to engage and destroy hostile targets! Let 'em have it, boys! No mercy!"

Lieutenant Cameron braked the Humvee to a halt behind the burning M1. "All Hitman Victors, all Hitman Victors, maintain current position and continue to provide supporting fire. Use any remaining AT's you have."

"This is fucking crazy, man!" Corporal French shouted from the roof as he blasted away with the turret mounted M2 Browning.

"Don't even think about it, Marine! Just fire your weapon!" Gibbs roared over the din.

"I'm doin' the best I can, Gunny!"

"Gimme better!"

"Goddamn it!"

As the fifty pounded away, Cameron turned to Gibbs. "Stand by, I'm going up on that tank to-"

Gunfire ripped into the Humvee then as infantry up ahead got a fix on its position. Cameron had already started to open the driver's door, and he flung it out wide and collapsed to the ground.

Gibbs hurled his own door open and dismounted, flinging himself to the ground. He rolled under the Humvee until he bumped up against Cameron. As he forced himself up, Gibbs prayed that the LT had just been grazed, that he would be back on his feet in a second, but that was not to be. He saw the blood, all the blood, and Cameron grabbed his Kevlar vest suddenly in a last moment of strength.

"Keep-" Cameron gasped, struggled. "Keep your fucking head down!"

Then he was gone. The commander of 1st Platoon, Charlie Company, the man whom Gibbs had helped mentor and teach when he had taken command of the unit only two months before they deployed to the Persian Gulf, gave a last sigh, impossible to even hear above the noise of battle, and was just gone.

Gibbs didn't have the luxury of grief. There just wasn't time. One of Anvil Actual's crew hit the ground on the left side of the tank. His crewman's coveralls were on fire, but the Marine remembered his training. He dropped to the desert floor and rolled around, beating at the flames with his gloved hands.

But where were the rest of them? Each M1 had a crew of four. Gibbs would feel the pain of losing Lieutenant Cameron later- much later- when he had that opportunity. Right now, he was setting down his M16, rushing around to the right side of the burning tank, hauling himself up onto the turret roof.

Inside, one of the crew was struggling to spray a compact fire extinguisher around with one hand and pull himself and an unconscious brother out of the commander's hatch with the other. The young man was in phenomenal shape, but that wasn't enough. He was overwhelmed and unable, or unwilling, to know it. Ignoring the zip-zip-zip of AK rounds flying by him, the roar of thunder as tank cannons fired, Gibbs reached down with both hands, took hold of the unconscious Marine under the armpits, and pulled with all his might. Gibbs stepped into thin air just as the unconscious Marine cleared the tank's interior, thinking he was getting his right boot on a better footing. Instead, he fell clean off the roof of the turret, taking the knocked-out commander of Bravo Company with him.

The third crewman from inside the turret hit the ground beside him a second or two later, flames licking at the legs of his coveralls. He rolled around and beat at the flames desperately as Gibbs took hold of him and Captain Marshall and, groaning at the exertion on his aging body, pulled them both to cover two feet behind the immobilized Humvee.

From there, Gibbs ducked and sprinted forward to check for the driver, whom he hadn't seen. He found the young Marine lying on the ground in front of the tank, trying desperately to pull himself to cover as the bullets flew.

Without a moment's hesitation, Gibbs sprang around the side of the Abrams, grabbed the driver, and began dragging him back to the rear with the others. He became aware that the young man was shouting at him, alternately praying and cursing, yelling about his leg, they'd shot him in the leg.

A 7.62x39mm round hit Gibbs in the sternum and he was thrown down on his back as if God had shoved him in dead-center in the chest. Focused on the retrieval of this last stranded crewman above all else, Gibbs forced himself to get back up. He reached, grabbed the wounded tank driver, started to plant his boots on the desert floor and pedal backwards-

And then another round- a glancing blow, luckily- caught Gibbs in the helmet, and the world went dark, still, and silent.

**XX**

Josh Marshall stood at attention as the desert sand whipped around his boots, hoping he looked suitably professional in his new set of tan camouflage fatigues. They had called him and several other Marines to the headquarters tent city of the 1st Marine Division, with the 2nd Marine Division and 2nd Tanks' top brass also in attendance. Josh had numerous bruises, scrapes and burns that were still healing, but the loss of two of his company's tanks and several of Charlie Company's Humvees went much deeper and caused far more pain. For Josh's bold offensive against the enemy, half a dozen men had paid with their lives. More had been wounded. Josh knew he was lucky. He'd been incredibly stupid.

Even the Marine engineers with their M728's had gone along. They hadn't even been told to, but had decided they were not going to just sit it out. They had used the high profiles of their modified Pattons to help shield the badly-outgunned Humvees from enemy fire, leading the Marine infantry to dismount and fire over and around their newfound cover.

All in all, the battle had cost the enemy 119 vehicles: 59 tanks, 32 armored personnel carriers, and 26 unarmored vehicles. Six towed artillery pieces had been destroyed and four more captured, a total of 800 Iraqi soldiers had been taken prisoner.

Josh had been out for less than two minutes, and during that time 1st Lieutenant Alex Ring had taken command of the company and directed its efforts flawlessly. He was here beside Josh and a few other Marines from this part of the Battle of Kuwait International Airport. Lieutenant Colonel William Ryan, commander of 1st Battalion, 1st Marine Division, had been granted the privilege of decorating the men from his unit and 2nd Tank Battalion, 2nd Marine Division who had been written up following the battle.

Right now, he was moving to stand in front of Josh as some Marine adjutant began to speak yet again. Josh only half-listened, but he stayed rigidly at attention. He may not have wanted to be here, getting made into some spectacle like this, but he would never have dared to behave improperly at an awards ceremony.

"For extraordinary heroism in the face of overwhelming enemy force… tirelessly led a fierce counterattack despite being outnumbered 3 to 1… inflicted devastating losses upon the enemy, far out of proportion to the size of the force under his command, in the largest and fastest tank battle in the history of the Marine Corps… the Navy Cross, for an unquestionable display of extreme valor that reflects great credit on himself, and the United States Marine Corps."

Lieutenant Colonel Ryan pinned the medal just above the nametape that read US MARINES. The dark blue ribbon with its white vertical center stripe had a bronze cross suspended from it, an old sailing ship featured at the center. It was the Department of the Navy's second-highest medal for heroism, ranked beneath only the Medal of Honor.

Taking another medal from the case held by a nearby aide, Colonel Ryan said, "This Purple Heart is equally deserved, Captain." He pinned that second medal to the right of the first.

"I'm sorry about Lieutenant Cameron, sir," Josh said quietly.

"It's all right, Captain. We all know you did everything you could."

The shame of that younger man's death in the battle weighed on him heavily, as did the deaths of the other five Marines. It was painful just to think about it, and Josh had the feeling it probably always would be. He planned on personally visiting every one of the families himself. He would write letters, but upon rotating back to the States, he would have more to do. The families deserved to see Josh's face, to curse him if they wanted to, listen to his apologies, if they wanted to. Either way it had to be done.

Josh wondered if every Marine leader of any rank had felt this way the first time he'd lost men killed in battle. Did it get any easier to live with? Did you somehow become accustomed to ordering men to go forward into harm's way? Did it become any easier to live with the knowledge that sending Marines into combat would almost always mean ordering men to their deaths?

There was no way of knowing. Of the two possibilities he could think of, Josh couldn't decide which one he liked less: That he might be unable to stay in the Corps due to an inability to live with casualties under his command… or that one day, he might just get used to it.

**XX**

Over the past couple days, had filled out over a dozen recommendations for commendations and promotions. Every tank commander in Bravo Company, 2nd Tanks had been awarded at least the Bronze Star. Josh's gunner, Crenshaw, got the Bronze Star and Purple Heart, and Schaefer and Zane got the Navy & Marine Commendation Medal and a Purple Heart each. The Marine engineer tank crews had also been recommended for decoration. Josh had it on good authority that his recommendations were going to be accepted.

There was nothing wrong with filling out these forms, recommending men who had gone far beyond basic expectations for recognition they had earned. Josh knew that. He felt stupid doing it as the man who'd led those Marines into a battle where they could easily have been overwhelmed and killed.

_Why didn't I leave the Humvees behind? I didn't need them to assault an armored force. All I did was put them at risk. Half of their platoon was wounded in action. I was reckless and irresponsible._

And that wasn't the worst part. Josh had regained consciousness in time to reassert command as the battle ended. Utterly routed by the extremely aggressive and precise assault by the Marines, an armored brigade with a battalion of supporting infantry and two batteries of towed artillery surrendered to one tank company and an infantry platoon.

Josh remembered what the desert had been like after the battle. Thick, choking black smoke from burning tanks. Blazing and charred hulls and turrets, pieces of destroyed Iraqi tanks and trucks littering the landscape. The stink of burned flesh, the bodies of Republican Guard crewmen who hadn't made it.

They were saying that the Battle of Kuwait International Airport had cost the Iraqi Army's 3rd Armored Division and the Republican Guard's 1st Hammurabi Armored Division everything. February 27, 1991. Two Iraqi armored divisions had been destroyed in a day. Saddam Hussein's ambitions in Kuwait were finished permanently.

Now, the war was over. It was March 10, 1991, and Bravo Company was going home tomorrow. They had already driven back to the rear to get their remaining tanks loaded aboard the ship. The men couldn't seem to get enough of Josh. They loved him more than ever before. His shout of "Waste the motherfuckers!" was extremely popular in the company, and the men of Bravo seemed to delight in telling and retelling the exploits of their "fearless commander."

Josh was grateful that he was bringing all of his Marines home despite the loss of three tanks. He knew he was lucky he could say that. The outcome could have been very different.

It sure had been different for the enemy. The way all those Iraqis had died… the T-72, T-62, and T-55 were all cheap old tanks, offering thin and obsolete armor with no protection for the crew in the event of an ammunition explosion. Three to four men had been in every tank, more than sixty tanks destroyed. Bravo Company had killed more than two hundred men. When those depleted-uranium darts pierced the pitifully-inadequate armor and set off 30-40 shells and the requisite propellant, the result had been swift and lethal. The only Iraqi tank crewmen who had survived the battle had either shut down and jumped out or had been abandoning their tank when it was hit.

_It was us or them_, Josh told himself. _You know that. It was kill or be killed, and you saved your men by killing theirs. That's war. And you'll lose men under your command sooner or later. If not your next battle, it'll be the one after that, or the one after that. You kill people for a living. This is what the business is like. You've gotten a taste of that now._

That was true. Josh knew it was. But he also knew it would be a long time before he ever got the smell of the desert after his Marines had obliterated several hundred men out of his head.

But having it bother you wasn't the same thing as regretting it. Josh had loved that battle. He'd been responsible for killing dozens of men every second, but- for some reason- he had never felt anything so exciting in all his life as combat. It had been… a rush. Nothing else would ever compare to it. Josh had been in life-or-death situations before. He'd even killed before. But the rush he'd felt while getting shot at just wasn't something he'd anticipated about war.

**XX**

Lieutenant Commander Brian Calderwood looked up as Josh stepped into the tent.

"What can I do for you, Captain?" the ebony-skinned officer asked.

Josh hesitated. "Sir, I wanted to talk to you about the battle at Kuwait International."

The chaplain nodded. "Yes, I heard your company performed extremely well. A great many families have you to thank for their sons and fathers coming home safe."

"Sir- may I speak freely?"

"Of course," Calderwood answered. The battalion chaplain gestured to a folding chair he'd set up not far from his own inside the tent. "I'm sorry I can't offer you better accommodations."

"Not a problem, sir." Josh sat down, leaned forward so his elbows rested on his thighs. "Sir, I- before I joined the Marines, I was homeless for four years. Moved around from place to place with my little brother. I killed… two people at least. Only when I had to."

"I understand," Calderwood answered, though he was hearing some of this for the first time.

"I thought that… after the life I lived back then, after what The Citadel taught me, what the Corps taught me, I'd be ready for combat."

"And so you were. You lived, and your men, too."

Josh nodded tightly. "Yes, sir. But what I mean is- the thing Bravo Company did out there… I ordered my men to destroy a whole brigade's worth of men. Don't know who they were, why they were there, if they were even really bad guys or not. We killed a lot of guys out there. And… sir, after I got knocked out, when I was back, we were rounding up prisoners. There were burning tanks everywhere. Almost nobody got out of 'em, and the smoke… and something behind the smoke… the fucking… the smell. Bodies. It was the bodies of all the guys we killed. We really fucked those people up."

Calderwood was silent for a few moments. "Captain, when you led your men to attack that enemy force, you did everything the Marine Corps could have expected of you. The lives of your men were at stake, not to mention your own. You took the initiative from a much larger enemy force, and destroyed them. Eliminating that Republican Guard brigade not only saved the lives of all the Marines with you at the time, but the lives of countless others. You helped ensure that the wanton and wicked aggression of Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait would not be allowed to stand."

"Yes, sir, I know," Josh answered. He was silent for almost a minute. "I don't know how many I killed myself, sir, but I do know that I'm responsible for all of it. It's my company and I'm in charge."

"Captain Marshall," Calderwood said, and Josh looked up. "Listen to this even if you don't listen to anything else I say. The Marines are in the business of killing. When done righteously it is a chore like any other. It is no sin to kill so long as you do not enjoy killing."

Josh considered that. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm gonna think about that."

"Did you want to speak to me more?"

"No, sir. Not right now, at least. I better get back to my company. When we rotate back to the States, I'll come see you."

"You're as devout as any warrior in the Corps, Captain. You're a fine leader. I'm proud to be serving with you."

"Thank you, sir."

Josh left the tent, heading back toward his company's little tent city, one of many within 2nd Tanks' and other elements of the 2nd Marine Division's encampment. He had known that talking to Commander Calderwood would help, and it did. He had never come so close to confessing he'd killed his own mother before, and admitting even as much as he did had helped, too. It was good to hear from the priest that the mission and the cause had been just, that the killing had been necessary just as Josh had known it was. It was good to know that Josh had done his duty and protected his men, and that it wasn't a sin to kill if you didn't enjoy killing.

What Josh wanted to know was if indifference was the same as enjoyment.

**XX**

It took some real effort, but before joining his men for the rotation back to "The World," Josh was able to get permission to visit Camp Okinawa. After hitching a Humvee ride there, Josh quickly figured out where the Navy had set up their medical tents at the 1st Marine Division's primary field encampment. He had gotten the brass to award Gunnery Sergeant Leroy Jethro Gibbs the Silver Star in addition to the automatic Purple Heart for his WIA status. He'd also gotten them to let Josh present both honors personally.

After checking several tents, Josh finally stuck his head into one more. He caught sight of an HM2 and said, "Hey. Is Gunnery Sergeant Leroy Gibbs in here?"

"Yes, sir," the younger man answered. "He's just behind me here."

"Has he said anything? Is he awake?"

"No, sir. He's been out cold since the battle at the airport."

Josh stepped inside. "How's he doing, Doc? You can tell me, whatever it is."

The blond corpsman hesitated only a moment. "He's comatose, sir. We believe he'll wake up, but he's been out for almost ten days."

"Can I leave him a note or something? I got the brass to process an award, too."

The corpsman's eyes widened. "Hey, are you_ the_ Josh Marshall? The one who destroyed that Republican Guard division?"

Josh laughed awkwardly. "Uh, I really didn't do that. My company just took out a brigade. And we had a platoon from Charlie Company, 1st Marines with us."

"But you were in charge? That was you?"

"Yeah."

The corpsman suddenly grinned, hurried up to Josh, and shook his hand vigorously.

"My brother's a Marine engineer. He wrote and told me they were about to get overrun by half the Iraqi Army when some guy he called 'Waste the Motherfuckers' decided to charge and saved everybody's asses."

"It was a team effort. Those engineers went in with us."

"Yeah, my brother said he's getting the Bronze Star because of the report you and your guys filed. Hey, is it true your tank crew alone destroyed twenty-five targets?"

"We got fifteen tanks, plus about five APCs. That's what was confirmed. We also wasted a lot of infantry."

"Wasted!" the corpsman laughed. "Man, I really shouldn't laugh about it, I mean- but, damn, my brother said you were cool and looks like he was right!"

"Can I see Gibbs, then?"

"Oh, hell yeah, sir. Listen, I better get back to work, someone's gonna have my ass in a sling if they figured out- look, sir, if you could, I dunno, sign the back of an index card or something that'd be awesome. Brian and I both got some little bros and cousins back home and they'd love to know we met a hero. I've never met anybody that got the Navy Cross before."

Josh thought about arguing the 'hero' accolade, but decided against it. He wasn't gonna change this kid's mind. "Sure."

The corpsman hurriedly turned and dug around in his pack, produced an index card, and Josh signed it and printed his name and the date.

"There," Josh said, handing it back. "So, I think you said you needed to get back to work?"

"Yes, sir," the younger man said. "Go ahead and pin on the medals or set the cases near him. I'll make sure they're left alone."

"Thanks, Doc."

"No problem, sir."

Josh took off his softcover and set it in one cargo pocket as he looked at the battered, sleeping man in the bed the corpsman had indicated. That was Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs, all right. He'd climbed on top of a blazing tank, pulled Josh out, and had gotten Crenshaw, Zane, and Schaefer to safety in the middle of the fiercest tank battle in Marine Corps history.

There were no chairs available, but Josh sat down on an adjacent empty bed. He'd written a letter and brought it along just in case Gibbs was still out. He pulled it out of his left breast pocket, and unfolded it to check it over one more time.

_To Gunnery Sergeant Leroy Jethro Gibbs,_

_Thank you for saving my life, and for saving my crew. I wish I could give you something more than words. Men are alive today because of what you did. I tried to get you the Medal of Honor. I want you to know that. They said the Silver Star was "more appropriate" whatever the hell that means. You saved me and you saved my crew. I owe you. You are the bravest man I have ever known. Semper Fi, Gunny. Keep kicking ass out there._

_Captain Josh S. Marshall_

_Bravo Company, 2__nd__ Tank Battalion, 2__nd__ Marine Division_

Four years of homelessness and a lifetime of hard, hard work meant that Josh tended to be blunt and straightforward in his speech and writing. He'd gotten a little more eloquent over time, but to Josh the best route to anything was a straight line. It was hard for him to write a thank-you note because he never knew what to say. But this looked good enough. Josh felt it would convey what he wanted it to. It didn't need to be Shakespeare.

Setting the letter down beside the unconscious noncom, Josh shrugged off his pack and got out the two medals cases, each of them containing a citation. He opened the Silver Star case first. The red, white and blue ribbon was new, flawless, and so was the gleaming gold five-pointed star that featured a smaller silver five-pointed star at its center, flanked by two golden wreaths. Josh removed it from the case and pinned it on Gibbs' left side, about where medals would be worn normally if it were a dress uniform instead of a hospital gown. Then he set that case down by the bed, opened the Purple Heart case, and pinned that on to the right of the Silver Star.

_Best I can do for you, Gunny_, Josh thought. _You saved my ass. You saved my crew. I'll have your back until the end of the fucking world after this. Just you wait and see._

**XX**

The moment Josh stepped on the airliner, the confined space exploded with wildly enthusiastic screams, shouts and cheers. With one voice, the men of Bravo Company roared out their approval of their commander. A few of them were battered and bandaged, and none of them had slept in a decent bed in months, but it didn't matter. The men of this company had met the enemy in real war for the first time and utterly destroyed them. The fact that they were alive, all of them going home at last, meant the most to Josh, but he knew he had to play the part.

Raising one hand, Josh tried to quiet his men, but the younger Marines kept hollering things like "Waste the motherfuckers!" and it took a minute for the noncoms and junior officers to calm them down. The whole plane, civilian aircrew included, looked at the captain expectantly.

"Guys," Josh said, "I'm gonna keep this brief. A lot of women in the States are waiting on you, so I won't waste your time."

The Marines laughed appreciatively.

"The Iraqis just found out what happens when you fuck with the United States or fuck with any nation's right to determine its own destiny. You did everything you were trained for, everything I expected. I am goddamn proud of all of you. I will be proud to kick ass with any of you at any time, anywhere, under any conditions. Semper Fi, motherfuckers."

Renewed shouts and cheers almost drowned out Josh's last words. He grinned, knowing that he was doing well indeed to have earned such approval from every last man in his company. The privates and lance corporals especially loved Josh's battlefield nickname, "Waste the Motherfuckers," and they showed it by bellowing the words over and over, along with the phonetic version, "Whiskey Tango Mike." Josh saluted his men, then took a seat among them, in a space First Sergeant Clay had reserved for him.

There was nothing special about the seat, and that was intentional. Josh had given strict orders that the wounded men be placed in first class, and any open spaces there were to be filled by those with urgent business waiting back in "the world," such as family emergencies. The officers and sergeants had seats randomly amongst the men, driving home the point for new Marines and veterans alike that there were no favorites in Bravo Company.

"Hey, Cap," one of the newest Marines in the company, Lance Corporal Jimmy Henricks said, nodding to his commander as Josh sat down. "You know what they call you now?"

"I think I heard "Waste the motherfuckers," Josh said matter-of-factly.

"Fuck yeah, sir." Hendricks had barely graduated high school a year ago, was named the Honor Graduate of his class at MCRD Parris Island, and was practically bouncing in his seat with youthful enthusiasm. "I mean, fucking- like, your goddamn callsign is 'Asskicker,' your nickname is Waste The Motherfuckers. How fucking cool is that?"

"Pretty goddamn cool, Lance Corporal," Josh answered. "I'm only what you guys make me out to be, though. Don't go thinking I'm more than I am."

"Shit, sir, we destroyed a fucking Republican Guard tank brigade because of you. If U.S. Army had been there, they'd have been fucked up, but not us! Hell no. Waste The Motherfuckers led us in and out again like it was fucking nothing. This whole company'd follow you anywhere, sir."

As the ramp was rolled away and the airliner started to taxi for the runway, Josh talked with Hendricks some more, secretly pleased that he had such rapport with the rank-and-file. It had been his objective ever since a Marine officer called Mattis had come to Josh's Navy ROTC class at The Citadel in 1981 and talked about the importance of living just like the Marines you led, traveling light, and possessing an absolute intolerance for bullshit. Mattis, wherever he was now, would likely have approved of not simply Bravo's adoration for their commander, but the reasons behind it.

The Marines all fell silent as the airliner picked up speed, anxiously awaiting the moment when it left the runway. The instant it did, a cheer went up from every one of the men. Some private up front called out, "Country roads…"

"Take me home," First Sergeant Clay answered.

"To the place," another Marine sang out.

"I belong," Josh added.

"WEST VIRGINIA," a group of Marines Josh recognized as the crew of "Steel Ridge," shouted, and what sounded like the whole company yelled out "MOUNTAIN MOMMA," then continued the song with more enthusiasm than skill. Josh was happy to sing along, grateful that he had done his duty and that his Marines were all on their way home. Singing such a familiar American song moved Josh almost to tears, but amidst all the excitement, nobody noticed.

**XX**

Elizabeth Moore Marshall sat contentedly on her living room couch, drinking lemonade and watching the boys play on the carpet at her feet. They had been napping amongst the pillows laid out for a while- coincidentally letting Mom get some sleep, too- but now they were back up and at it again. Nothing kept either of the twins down for long. They had their Mom's green eyes and strawberry blond hair- perhaps a compromise the Big Guy had made between Mom's golden blonde hair and Dad's red.

Their energy and drive came from both parents, as well. Josh might have been the career warrior, but Elizabeth was the warrior's wife, responsible for managing all their household's affairs anytime Josh was away. Josh spent many long hours in the field training with his fellow Marine tankers, readying himself and his unit for war. Now, war had finally come, and the fighting had been more intense than Elizabeth, for one, had imagined. She was concerned, but not scared. Fear could easily eat her up, fear of the unknown and what might happen. So, she let it have its place, let herself be concerned for Josh, but she refused to be afraid.

Josh had missed the boys' second birthday on February 10th- Saddam Hussein had refused to cooperate and let the boys come home. Virtually every Camp Lejeune wife with a husband in 2nd Tanks had come together to arrange a wonderful day for Joshua Jr. and Christian anyway. They were happy, delightful boys, and they had been thrilled to see so many people and be the object of so much attention and affection. It had been the same for Cassandra at her birthday party back in November, but Cassandra was not as open as the twins. She didn't like to show emotion. Still, she'd smiled enough when she thought nobody was looking that Elizabeth and everyone else knew she had been pleased.

The kids should have had their father here for their birthdays, but Josh was a career Marine officer. This probably wouldn't be the last time he missed a birthday, or missed a holiday. The family would just have to cherish the times he could be there, and tough it out on the days when he couldn't.

"Mama, go bafroom," Chris announced. He stood up and boldly started to run past the couch, making for the bathroom, or the "head" as Marines called it.

"Hey, not s'posed go bafroom, go head!" Josh Jr. said indignantly. He got confidently to his feet and ran after his brother, his small feet thumping on the floor.

"Gots to go!" Chris exclaimed, gesturing excitedly towards the bathroom.

"Bee-lay dat, Mayreen!" Josh Jr. replied. He reached Chris, tapped him on the shoulder. "Dass gainst reglations!"

"Samplefries, Mayreen!" Chris said, clumsily imitating the position of attention and a salute. Then he fell over. "Owtch."

"Corpseman!" Josh Jr. cried. "Momma, need Corpse-man! Gotta Mayreen wit' the hurts!"

Chris tried to stand up, then rolled on his side and gingerly touched his bottom. "Owtch," he said again.

Elizabeth had gotten up by then, and she went over, knelt, and offered a hand to Chris and a hand to Josh Jr. "I have orders to escort you to the head," she said with mock seriousness to Chris.

"Kay," Chris said. He carefully got back on his feet and took his mother's hand. Like his namesake, Chris feared little and loved life with a passion. He was fiercely loyal to Josh Jr. The twins bickered often, but with warrior affection, never with malice. And thanks to Josh's shameless efforts to teach them Marine terminology, they used Marine Corps vocabulary all the time, usually mispronounced.

"Gotta get Chris Corpse-man, Momma," Josh Jr. said solemnly. "He got the hurts."

"I'm kay," Chris replied.

"Love you," Josh Jr. said.

"Aw," Chris said. As they neared the bathroom, the toddler began crying. Elizabeth then heard him say, "You got my heart."

Josh carefully let go of his mother's hand, walked around in front of her, and hugged Chris. "You kay?" he asked after a few moments.

"Kay," Chris replied, sniffling.

As usually happened, Chris going made Josh Jr. want to go. Elizabeth contentedly helped each of them up onto the toilet, carefully held them, and helped dress them again. The boys then giggled helplessly when she held them up one at a time to wash their hands. For whatever reason, the sound of the water running out of the faucet, or maybe the feel of the water on their tiny hands, delighted them. Or maybe it was the bubbles the soap made if they played around with the water enough. Either way, they had a wonderful time, and it made the trip to the bathroom last almost half an hour.

Once she finally had the boys' hands dry, Elizabeth decided to try something. She began encouraging the twins to stand and walk on their own, to get them polished up some more on their walking. They were proficient walkers, and eagerly-learning runners. Already they were climbing up on things and starting to escape from their gated play area quite regularly.

A key was rattling in the lock at the front door. Elizabeth frowned. Nobody had a key to the door except her, the MPs (of course) and-

"Josh!" she exclaimed.

In the doorway stood her tall, strong, magnificent husband, wearing his immaculate full dress blues. Several new medals hung from the left side of his chest, namely the Navy Cross and the Purple Heart.

Josh just smiled at her. "Well, I'm back!"

"Yaaaaay!" Chris cried, clapping delightedly.

"Saloot!" Josh Jr. called out as he ran up alongside Chris. The twins clumsily saluted.

Josh knelt in the doorway, setting down his dress cover. He held out his arms, palms open, and gestured to them. "Hey! Come to Daddy, guys!"

The twins ran to him, Josh scooped them up, planted kisses on their cheeks and foreheads, tickled them and made them laugh. They kissed him back, plainly thrilled to see him. Elizabeth hung back, letting the boys have their moment. Then, after Josh brought the twins back to the living room and set them inside the gated play area in front of the couch, husband and wife embraced.

"Josh," Elizabeth said once they separated. "I thought I told you _no medals_."

"Sorry," Josh said. "I, um, couldn't quite help myself."

"You went and attacked something, didn't you?"

"Well-"

"It's what you tankers live for. You're the worst kind of Marines. Your idea of a plan is taking the biggest hammer you can find and smashing whatever's in the way."

"Have you issued the kids some hammers yet?" Josh asked. "I want them destroying things as early as possible. They have to learn the way of a warrior."

"They're 2 years old, honey. And Cassandra's 3."

"Speaking of, where is she?"

"Well, she was taking a nap in her room, so-"

"You said you weren't gonna gets shot," a small, disapproving voice said. Cassandra Moore Marshall stood there, a stern frown on her face.

"Cassie, my dearest," Josh said, kneeling and opening his arms to her. "I missed you."

Cassandra scowled at him. "Bad guys didn't miss you. You promised."

"They put a round through the side of my tank, but I made it out. This tough old leatherneck saved my whole crew."

"What? Latherneck?"

Josh laughed. "Close enough. C'mon, Cassie."

"Cassie mad cause you left!" Josh Jr. shouted from the living room.

"Thanks, Junior!" Josh called back.

"Samplefries, Mayreen!"

The twins' word for "Marine" was one of the few things that easily amused Cassandra, who was normally quite solemn, especially for 3 years old. Cassandra ran a hand over her sandy blonde hair, tried to resume frowning, but smile started slipping through. Eventually she ran to Josh, hugged him tightly, then hurried out to join the twins.

"Hey, Cassie!" Chris called brightly.

"Move."

"My seat! Mayreen, dass not offersized!"

"Shh, Chris. I wanna sit with both of you."

A pause.

"Aw, Mayreen, we forgives you," Josh Jr. said.

"Good," Cassandra said, doing her best to sound gruff.

"They're all doing fine," Elizabeth said. "We're just glad you're back."

"I know." Josh gently brushed her left cheek with one hand. "My love," he said softly, "a beauty to rival all the goddesses and outshine the stars themselves. I have missed you. Every day, every hour, I have missed you. Nothing could ever, ever tempt me away. Married to you, Liz, I want for nothing."

Elizabeth kissed him again, her eyes blurring with tears. "Listen to you," she said. "Oh, Josh, that's wonderful." She couldn't help trying to tease him, though, and added, "And they say you're so straight to business."

A mischievous smile suddenly emerged on Josh's face. "Hey, do _you_ wanna get straight to business, babe?"

"Josh-"

"Remember the night when Chris and Josh Jr. 'happened'?"

"I said-"

"And Cassandra, back in good old '87?"

"Stop that!"

"What about a welcome home for the conquering hero?" Josh asked, shrugging his heavily-muscled shoulders.

"Later!" Elizabeth hissed at him. "Now let's go spend time with the kids!"

"Can we watch _Bedknobs & Broomsticks_, _Mom_?" Josh asked, grinning impishly.

Elizabeth sighed, shaking her head good-naturedly. "Okay. Sure thing."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

**XX**

Leroy Jethro Gibbs opened the door to his empty, darkened on-base house at Camp Pendleton, turned on a light, and immediately wished he hadn't. There were pictures, possessions, items everywhere that reminded him of Shannon, of Kelly. While he'd been deployed to the Persian Gulf, his wife and daughter had been taken from him. Murdered. Gibbs had loved them so much. He'd never loved anything or anyone as passionately as he'd loved them. And all he could say now was, "I had orders."

Orders. A Marine's life revolved around orders. David Cameron had died because orders had sent him into harm's way, because a whole brigade of Iraqi soldiers had decided to show up and force a badly-outnumbered Marine unit into battle. And Gibbs had fought in that battle already knowing that his wife and only child were dead.

It hurt. It hurt so much. But Gibbs, a stoic and self-contained man by nature, had been further toughened by more than a decade in the Marine Corps. He moved into his house, closed the door behind him. A lesser man might have broken down over this. No wife or daughter, not anymore, an estranged father, no other close family. Gibbs had returned home from war victorious, a hero. Awarded the Silver Star, Bronze Star and Purple Heart. All that for a man who had left his wife and daughter to be killed. He'd marched off to war without a second thought. To hell with duty, orders, and discipline. He should have stayed.

_But you never abandoned your post in your life_, Gibbs could hear David Cameron saying, his own voice saying. _You are a Marine. Semper Fidelis- Always Faithful_.

It was true enough… but it did little to console Gibbs right now.

Lieutenant Colonel Ryan had made a point of personally expressing his condolences to Gibbs about the death of 1st Lieutenant Cameron. He'd said Gibbs could take all the time he needed before returning to duty with Charlie Company, but Gibbs intended to be back on duty right away. He'd be back at work tomorrow. There was no way he could sit around in this empty house, surrounded by nothing but memories, reminders of what he used to have.

One thing was clear to Gibbs right now. As much as he had loved all this time spent in the Marine Corps, he was not going to reenlist. Once he declined, the paperwork to generate his honorable discharge would begin, and Leroy Jethro Gibbs would become a civilian in early 1992.

It was the only way. Gibbs had traveled and seen the world and would be proud of the title he'd earned, of that Eagle, Globe and Anchor he'd earned at Parris Island in 1976, for the rest of his life. He would never stop being a Marine. And whatever he did next, Gibbs knew he would not just go sit around and play golf in Florida. He had many years of service left in him, and somehow, some way, Gibbs knew he still wanted to serve. Some other agency, some other job, hopefully one with decent hours and real coffee and a respectable paycheck. But something that revolved around duty, order, making things right and the world a better place. Gibbs was a sucker for that kind of stuff. He always had been, deep down.

But tonight, the aging warrior was just weary and alone. He walked over to his favorite armchair, the one Kelly had always loved, and sat down, feeling every one of his 37 years. He had made it home, alive and at least physically intact. The warrior had returned after giving Corps and country another victory to their name.

Gibbs would have been lying, however, if any of that had meant very much to him as he sat there alone in his house. For possibly the first time in his life, Gibbs was unsure of what to do. Going forward from here seemed impossible. Yet Gibbs was a Marine, and to Marines nothing was impossible.

Justice. There would have to be justice for Shannon, for Kelly. Gibbs would find out who had ordered their deaths and even the score. He knew that some people would have said that was wrong, that eye for an eye just left the whole world blind. Gibbs knew that. But sitting here in this empty house, surrounded by memories and pain while the man who had murdered his wife and daughter was out there, free, Gibbs didn't much care.

**A/N: 2-6-2019.**

**Revision completed 5-10-2019.**

**I first got the idea for this story and set up a Word document for it on October 14, 2018. Took me a little over three months to actually write the story. I completed it in a fit of inspiration between February 5, 2019 and February 6, 2019. In part I was inspired by the sudden onset of chapter after chapter for "Gibbs' Test" by the excellent and talented author Jenny wrens. Out of nowhere she just starts uploading one chapter after another, really stepping up to the plate, as they say. Well, I figured I better stop making excuses and get some writing done, so here we are.**

**Gibbs' actions in NCIS canon post-Gulf War are hinted at in this story, the thoughts about finding another service-oriented career, and the commitment to taking revenge on whoever was responsible for Kelly and Shannon Gibbs' murders. I included them as best I could without being too obvious about it.**

**This story was originally intended to depict Leroy Jethro Gibbs during the battle in the Gulf War (1990-1991) that resulted in him being wounded in action and in a coma for 19 days afterward. I found myself thinking about that little-known aspect of Gibbs' past. We're given some details, long after the fact, but never see the events of that battle as Gibbs would have experienced them at the time. Since it is never said- so far as I am aware- which battle of the Gulf War that Gibbs was wounded in, I picked the Battle of Kuwait International Airport. Some details of the battle are real, but the units involved and the exact nature and sequence of events for the Marine unit that breached the minefield are fictionalized. In real life, Bravo Company, 4****th**** Tank Battalion, 4****th**** Marine Division engaged and destroyed 59 tanks, 32 APCs, 26 non armored vehicles, and an artillery gun in the "Reveille Engagement," the biggest and fastest tank battle in USMC history.**

**The radio communications are based off of how Marine comms are depicted in the 2008 HBO miniseries "Generation Kill" and off the 2011 video game "Battlefield 3." Essentially, "Hitman 1" is the callsign of 1****st**** Platoon, Charlie Company, 1****st**** Battalion, 1****st**** Marine Division. "Anvil" is the callsign of Bravo Company, 2****nd**** Tank Battalion, 2****nd**** Marine Division. Individual teams- in this case vehicles- have numbers. So "Anvil 3-2" is the second tank of 3****rd**** Platoon. "Actual" denotes the commander of a unit, so "Anvil Actual" is the commanding officer of the whole unit going under the "Anvil" callsign- in this case, a single tank company.**

**The 2001 movie "Rules of Engagement" inspired me to use the line "Waste the motherfuckers," in a story I wrote for the 2003 movie "Zero Day" called "The Message." I borrowed some text originally written for that story and modified it to fit into this one.**

**The Iraqi Army's 3****rd**** Armored Division was indeed involved in the Battle of Kuwait International Airport, as were elements of the Republican Guard, although I do not know for certain if the 1****st**** 'Hammurabi' Armored Division participated.**

**I originally intended to have this story end with the closing of the battle, but I began to get inspiration and ideas so I wrote further, showing my OC Joshua Marshall during and after an extremely intense battle. At the time, he feels no regret over ordering and personally participating in the deaths of hundreds of Iraqi soldiers. In battle, feeling anything for the enemy will just make it easier for you to hesitate and them to kill you. Josh Marshall, as a well-trained warrior, never hesitates once in the battle and he leads his unit with great efficiency, absolutely destroying a much larger enemy force. We then see how he is appalled by the sights and smells of the carnage his unit created, and even if he doesn't exactly feel regret, Josh is bothered by the deaths he caused and by the deaths of Marines serving under his command. Being a good combat leader demands being willing to send people into harm's way- quite possibly to their deaths. That is an unavoidable fact of leading military personnel in battle.**

**Reviews are welcome, as always.**


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